


Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woodchuck

by teaberryblue



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Artist!Steve, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Woodchucks, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13185873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: Steve paints Tony.





	Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woodchuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> Written for the Cap/Ironman Holiday Exchange Community Gifts Prompt: Steve Paints Tony
> 
> This is sort of a nebulous loose-AU comicsverse. I'm assuming it's a modern-era 616 Silver Age, but you can do with it what you like!

“That’s not _exactly_ what I had in mind,” Tony said, wiping green paint off his cheek. It didn’t come off entirely, and spread further than the original brushstroke, leaving a smear down the side of his face.

“Oh?” Steve asked, grumbling. “Would you prefer blue?” He brandished another paintbrush, and Tony easily sidestepped out of range. 

Tony grinned, his eyes dancing. “Of _course_ I’d prefer blue,” he said, smirking mischievously. His gaze was purposeful, now, and Steve could almost _feel_ Tony drinking him in with his eyes. “Blue’s my favorite color. Especially paired with red. And white. And stars. And str--” 

Steve waved the paintbrush at him again, and tried to suppress a smile, but he could feel the corners of his mouth turning upward, nonetheless. “ _Tony_ ,” he implored. “I’m on a _deadline_. I’m not going to finish in time if you--”

Tony batted his eyelashes. “Oooh,” he said. “What’s the deadline?” He tried to step around Steve’s canvas, to see the painting in progress. “What are you working on? Huh?” 

Steve expertly spun the easel on its wheels, turning the painting toward the wall to block it from view, and he tried to look stern. “If you’re going to needle me about--”

“Needle?” Tony asked. “Who’s needling?”

“--Having an _art career_ , you’re going to have to shut up and let me paint once in a while.” 

Tony sighed. “If I sit in the corner,” he relented, “ _very_ quietly, can I watch?” 

“If you sit in the corner,” Steve repeated, “very quietly, you’ll distract me, and I won’t get any painting done.” 

Tony looked very pleadingly at Steve, his eyes wide and wistful. He stepped closer, and leaned down, gazing at Steve affectionately, moving closer and closer until their lips were nearly touching. 

He dabbed a spot of paint on the tip of Steve’s nose. “Gotcha!”

“If,” Steve offered, conciliatory, as he wiped the fuschia away, “I kiss you right now, will you let me paint?” 

Tony crossed his arms, looking at the ceiling, as if weighing the proposition. “Three kisses,” he countered. 

“Three kisses,” Steve agreed. “And then I get an hour of uninterrupted peace and quiet.” 

Tony leaned in, and tapped his lips. “Three.” 

Tony, ever the enterprising businessman, negotiated three kisses into four, and four into five, before Steve batted him away and told him to go disrupt another industry, or whatever it was he did in his spare time. 

Exactly fifty-nine minutes later, there was a knock at Steve’s studio door. He glanced up at the security camera, and, to his surprise, saw Janet at the door.

“Come in?” Steve replied, and the door slid open.

Janet was holding two large mugs, both topped off with copious amounts of whipped cream and red-and-green sprinkles. 

“Tony sent me to spy,” she informed him, as she held out one of the mugs. “So I brought cocoa. Do you mind if I sit in the corner for a bit and work on my sash for the Christmas gala? I’m never going to _forgive_ myself if I don’t get this beading done.” 

Steve took the cup of cocoa from her, and tried to sip it, but mostly wound up with a face full of whipped cream. 

“Ooh!” Jan exclaimed, looking over his shoulder at the painting that sat on the easel. “Is _that_ what you’re working on? It’s--” She stood back to admire it, tilting her head from one side to the other. “I’m impressed.” 

Steve shrugged, sheepish, and could feel the tips of his ears going red. “I’m worried I won’t finish it on time.” 

Jan grinned, and sat down at the desk in the corner, pulling out a long stretch of shimmering satin, and a small box of glittering beads. “Psh,” she said, waving a hand at him, as she threaded a long, slender needle. “You’ll get it done. You always do.” 

\----

“A _woodchuck_?” Tony asked, blinking. “Why won’t he let me see a painting of a woodchuck?” 

“It’s a very cute woodchuck,” Jan assured him nicely. “And he’s _self-conscious_ ,” she said, giving Tony’s hair a playful swat. “Wouldn’t _you_ be self-conscious if you were dating, well, you know, _you_?” 

“Oh,” Tony said, frowning. He scratched at his beard. “I suppose so. I’m very intimidating.” 

Jan snorted. “All I know is that _you_ actually started picking your underwear up off your bedroom floor once you realized there was a chance Steve might see it--” 

“My underwear or my bedroom floor?” Tony interrupted. 

“Both,” Jan said, sagely. 

“I like to think my resolution to be a habitually tidier person just happened to unrelatedly coincide with certain breakthroughs in my personal life,” Tony said. 

Jan raised both eyebrows. “So, not intimidated at all by Captain America?” she asked. 

“ _Me_?” Tony put a hand to his chest, looking wounded. “Only the tiny, most infinitesimal--” 

“You moved all your action figures to a high-security storage unit,” Jan reminded him. 

“But I didn’t destroy them!” Tony argued. “That’s a point in my favor, isn’t it? And it’s only the Captain America ones. I’m not hiding _my_ woodchucks from him.” 

“You don’t have any woodchucks, Tony.” 

Tony coughed. “Are you sure about that?” 

\----

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Steve said, when Tony answered the door. His hair was disheveled, and he still hand paint underneath his fingernails, and a little smudge on his chin. 

Tony grinned, and stood on his tiptoes to kiss him. “You’re never too late,” he said. He reached for Steve’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “How’s the painting going?” 

Steve chewed at his lip, and looked around Tony’s workshop, thoughtfully. “It’s...going,” he said. 

“Hey,” Tony said. He reached up, rubbing the spot of paint on Steve’s chin away with his thumb. “You know there’s no contingencies here, right?” he asked. “You don’t meet a deadline, I’m not going to think less of you.” 

He cleared his throat. “I’ve missed _lots_ of deadlines.” 

“Yeah,” Steve answered, looking down at the floor. He shuffled his feet. “But this one’s important.”  
Tony took a deep breath, and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “So, look. If you need me to stay out of your hair, I’ll stay out of your hair.” 

Steve glanced up, and smiled, his shoulders relaxing as he did. 

“I mean. Figuratively,” Tony amended. “Figuratively out of your hair. I like your literal hair too much to stay out of it.” 

Grinning, Steve reached for Tony’s own hair, and ruffled it. “Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to.” 

\----

The phone rang. “Hello?” Steve asked, cradling it uncomfortably against his shoulder with his chin so he could keep painting. 

“Hey, it’s me,” Tony said, and there was something tentative about his voice, the end of the phrase turning up like a question he’d yet to ask.

“What is it?” Steve asked, before realizing that he sounded unreasonably brusque. “Sorry,” he said. “You just sound--” 

“Look,” Tony replied, and there was a long pause between his words. Steve could hear him breathing. “I know you’ve got that painting-thing, and if you can’t, you can’t, but...I’ve got a holiday party. A, er. A work party. And I’d really like it if you could, uh. As my. Date? If it won’t...I mean. Your deadline.” 

Steve put his brush down and cradled the phone like it was a treasured possession. He stepped back from the easel, frowning at the painting in front of him, consideringly. 

“Sorry,” Tony said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother--” 

“It’s no bother,” Steve assured him. “And I’d love to come.” He took a deep breath, and looked back at the painting, grinning. “Anyway, I think I’m done.” 

“Did you make your deadline?” Tony asked. The question was the most mundane one he could have asked, but his tone was gleeful.

“Yeah,” Steve answered, smiling at the painting again. “With time to spare.” 

\----

“And Mrs. Arbogast-- _Mrs. Arbogast_ came up to me!” Tony exclaimed gleefully. His hair was ruffled, his eyes were sparkling, and he was nearly shouting as he half-danced down the hallway, his bowtie adorably askew. “She said she’d never _seen_ me so happy, and I should _keep_ you! Bambi Arbogast! Said _that_!” 

Steve hung on to one corner of Tony’s jacket, trailing behind like a dogwalker with a tremendously over-excited puppy. But he felt warm and tingly, from his toes all the way up, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “That’s...that’s good?” he asked, hopefully. 

“Good?” Tony echoed, and he spun around to catch at Steve’s hands, placing them firmly on his own hips. “It’s _marvelous_. Fantastical. Superfluous.” 

“That means extra, Tony,” Steve said patiently, assuming Tony meant ‘superlative,’ while wishing a little wistfully that he could get drunk. 

“It _is_ extra!” Tony exclaimed. He popped up onto his tiptoes to give Steve a kiss, then leaned into him, cheek against his chest. “It’s the most extra-normous ultimate unparallelled occurrence par _excellence_ to have ever happened since...since…” 

He trailed off, and Steve found himself stroking Tony’s shoulders through his tuxedo jacket, and pressing kissed into his hair. 

“...Since forever,” Tony finished softly. He tugged at the front of Steve’s jacket. “Happy Hanukkah,” he whispered. 

“Hanukkah’s over,” Steve reminded him. 

“Is it Christmas yet?” Tony asked. He slid his hands beneath Steve’s jacket, around to the small of his back, and snuggled up against him.

Steve shook his head. “It’s the twenty-third.” 

“Well,” Tony said, frowning as he sobered up a little and stepped back, just slightly. He glanced rapidly from side to side, as if trying to remember something, and then nodded. “Happy National Pfeffernüsse Day.” 

Steve blinked. “How do you _know_ that?” 

“Shhh,” Tony said, putting a finger to his lips. He leaned his head back against Steve’s chest. “ _Happy National Pfeffernüsse Day_ ”

\----

“One present,” Steve finally relented, glancing at the stacks of brightly-colored packages beneath the tree. Tony had outdone himself. As much as Steve had pleaded for a gift limit, and then for a spending limit, Tony somehow seemed to have strange ideas about what “five gifts under fifty dollars, total,” meant, and Steve was feeling incredibly inadequate as he looked over the countless boxes and bags and bows all labeled _Steve_. “One present for Christmas Eve each, and the rest wait till morning.” 

Tony grinned, and reached for the smallest of the boxes labeled _Tony_. “I want this one,” he said. 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “I expected you to go for the biggest,” he said, as he selected his own, a rectangular box that he suspected was a sweater, because he wanted to save the surprises for last. 

“I like this one,” Tony said, tapping the bow on the top of his box. “Anyway, you’re teaching me moderation.” 

Steve pursed his lips. He couldn’t very well argue _now_. 

“You should pick a different one,” Tony told Steve, frowning at the box he’d chosen. “That one’s not very exciting.” 

“I’m trying to hold off on the excitement for tomorrow,” Steve answered. 

Tony looked like he was about to say something, then stopped, and pulled on the edge of the paper covering his present. “Well,” he said. “Me first.” 

He ripped off the paper, and opened the little box to find a rather scratched up metal key. “What is this?” he asked, squinting, as he held it up. “It’s--huh.” 

Tony turned the key over in his hand, and the straightened up as recognition flickered in his eyes. “The supply closet?” He looked over at Steve. “You’re giving me a supply closet? In my own house?” 

“I thought you always wanted a supply closet,” Steve said, innocently. 

Tony perked up. “Blowjobs in the supply closet,” he answered. “I always wanted blowjobs in the supply closet.” He grinned wolfishly at Steve and hopped to his feet. “Are you wearing a sexy elf thong? Do I get to make requests? I hope this somehow involves ‘Santa, Baby,’ and lots of whipped cream.” 

Steve muttered under his breath, hefting the sweater box along with him as he trailed down the hall after Tony, all the while listening as Tony’s fantasy became more lurid and alarmingly specific. 

Tony popped the key into the lock. “And then after you’ve licked off all the chocolate, I can paint your toenails and I’ll--” 

“Oh,” Tony said, pausing mid-description as the door swung open. “Oh, Steve, that’s…” 

Propped up on a stool was Steve’s finished painting, of Tony, seated on a stool in his workshop, hunched over a gauntlet gripped tightly in one hand, a screwdriver in the other. His tongue poked out of his mouth, his brow was furrowed deeply, and his hair was at all angles. 

And there was a smudge of green paint down one side of his face.

It wasn’t the most flattering portrait anyone had ever painted of Tony Stark, but it was the most honest, and the most personal, and Steve could feel his heart fluttering in his chest so fast that he felt like it might pop out at any moment. 

Tony stepped back from the painting, and took Steve’s hand, and looked up at him adoringly. 

“Is that sort of what you had in mind when you asked me to paint you?” Steve asked. 

“I mean,” Tony said breathlessly. “Yes, but I didn’t think it’d be so good.” 

Tony looked back at the painting, and squeezed Steve’s hand, tightly, and then gave Steve a hasty glance that seemed almost sheepish, not quite meeting his gaze. “Open yours?” he squeaked. 

Steve gave Tony a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, untying the box. “I know it’s a sweater; I’m not expecting…” 

But Tony was wincing, and Steve popped the cover off the box to reveal a cacophonous mess of red and green and white and gold in all its hideous-holiday-sweater glory. The sweater in the box was folded so that Steve couldn’t quite make out what it said on it, but it was _definitely_ the tackiest Christmas sweater he’d ever seen. 

He cleared his throat. “Well. Er. I wasn’t expecting _this_ ,” he said. 

The sweater began to blink and play music. Tinny, mechanical music. Steve was fairly sure it _was_ ‘Santa, Baby,’ though it was hard to tell. 

“Uh,” Tony was standing with his hands behind his back, bouncing back and forth from foot to foot. “What does it say?” 

“It’s folded up,” Steve said, and he gave Tony a suspicious look as he pulled it out of the box. “Il-- No, Will…”

The shirt unfurled, hanging in all its hideous, blinking glory, emblazoned with four words and a question mark at the end. 

Steve froze.

“Sorry,” Tony said hastily. “I-- I thought--. So--”

“Well,” Steve said, as he reached for Tony’s hand. “Ordinarily, I’d say yes, but not if I have to wear _this_.”


End file.
